


Where Your Mouth Is

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Carnival, Castiel's Family is Rich (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Being a Good Brother, First Meetings, Fluff and Humor, Kissing Booths, M/M, Smart Dean Winchester, This isn't even an official tag because it's so canon already <3, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23506858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: “That’s okay; I’ll just give you the money.”“Are you sure? You don’t have to—”As he’s speaking, Cas hands him a… Benjamin. A crisp one too—fresh-faced and unwrinkled. Benny Boy before all the freaky sex stuff.“Uh… I think you may’ve pulled out the wrong bill. I only charged five dollars.”
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 11
Kudos: 136





	Where Your Mouth Is

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's finding her groove again??? It's about damn time.
> 
> Thanks to my bestie, Alyssa, who provided me with the inspiration I needed to get back into AU fic writing.
> 
> I've missed you guys! Hope everyone is taking precautions during these trying times, but still doing what they have to to survive. I see and hear all of you.  
> Please, de-stress with this fic. <3

Dean’s mouth always got him in trouble. But today, it made him $400 richer.

His dad calls it low-grade prostitution. And maybe he’s right. But there’s nothing Dean wouldn’t do for Sam. When Sam confided in him he wanted to be a lawyer, hell, Dean was euphoric in a way he’d only felt hitting a joint. The irony of a career criminal who flips and sells stolen cars raising a son pursuing a degree in criminal justice is poetic enough for Dean to write a poem.

As for Dean, well… he’s probably going to continue doing what he does best. Singer Auto Salvage pays well and, unbeknownst to John, is teaching Dean about more than cars. Bobby, the owner and his dad’s parts dealer, has had him bookkeeping for the last few months, teaching him everything from cash flow to net income.

Dean—a high school dropout with a 2.7 GPA—never expected to fall in love with numbers. But he suspects Bobby did. He may not look the part with his faded baseball caps, a graying, untrimmed beard so thick it’s practically an umbrella for his mouth now, and a wardrobe that can keep a lumberjack warm for an entire winter season, but he’s smart. Never having kids of his own, he considers Dean his son. And what parent doesn’t want the best for their kid?

(Not that he’ll ever tell Sam he likes math. But he’ll still attend Sam’s mathlete tournaments and silently solve the answers before anyone else.)

So, with his newfound accounting skills and the local carnival in town, he manages to craft an equation to make $500 on his day off. $500 plus a few hundred he’s saved from the shop should cover Sam’s expenses for his eighth-grade Washington D.C. field trip in May.

He’s tempted to see if he can make another $100, but he’s out of baby wipes and he doesn’t feel like catching mono today, so he calls it a success. He’ll figure out a way to make up for the other $100 he needs. Sam doesn’t need the deposit until March anyway.

As he’s packing up to leave, he catches someone—another boy—staring at him. It hasn’t been uncommon today. Dean’s surprised he hasn’t added blue and purple to his pink and purple collection of stains on his face today from jealous boyfriends.

“I know,” Dean concedes, separating Washington’s and Lincoln’s army of paper clones, “I look like I went a few rounds with my grandma at a family reunion. I can’t wipe it off.”

The stranger chuckles. “I was going to say a budget Joker, but that works too.”

Dean pauses counting to look up at the guy with the... well, voice like Bruce Wayne himself… and holy moley, he was not prepared for the same slicked-back dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and crooked half-smile. The only distinguisher is a set of plush, pink lips. “Now you’re speaking my language,” he replies with a smile before introducing himself.

“Oh, I know. I’ve heard your name roll off the tongues of every girl here. Except my friend Charlie.”

“Jealous boyfriend?”

“No, but I’m sure her girlfriend would have a few questions.”

“Ah.”

“Cas,” the guy says, lending out his hand before using it to gesture to the sign above them. Dean wrote it in thick red Sharpie but his handwriting looks more like Tom Hanks’ desperate plea for help engraved in the Monuriki sand, so he stuck a nail in the old, beat-up wooden board to hang mistletoe to make it look more imaginative. “So what’s the kissing booth for anyway? Fundraising for the local football team?”

“Do I really look like a jock?” Dean asks with a laugh.

“Crew-cut hair, leather jacket, acid-wash jeans; I’d say you fit the description.”

Cas shrugs as Dean starts to noticeably shrink in on himself, re-evaluating his style. (The AC/DC shirt underneath has to count for something, right?)

“Nothing wrong with that though,” Cas reassures. “I’ve slept with a few jocks. You’d think a star quarterback wouldn’t have so much stage fright. Major Butterfingers.”

The full head of pink cotton candy Cas has been gripping with his left hand and holding in front of his sand brown pants isn’t as innocuous anymore. Dean hopes he doesn’t visibly gulp. “I’m helping my little brother out. He’s got expensive taste in extracurriculars.”

“Let me guess, the eighth-grade Washington D.C. field trip?” Cas poses. “My kid brother Samandriel put his name on the sign-up sheet too. He’s not nearly as excited as my dad is for that trip.”

“Wait… Samandriel? Isn’t he in the seventh-grade mathletes club?”

“Co-captain.”

“My little brother’s treasurer. He would’ve been Captain if it wasn’t for that snob, Bela.”

“Ah, Sam. I hear from Samandriel he’s good with more than just finances.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Well, I mean, you’re his brother. You have to know.”

“Well now I most certainly do,” Dean says, leaning forward with pursed eyebrows.

“Well,” Cas begins with the same crooked smile, appeasing Dean by leaning into him a little. He smells like peppermint and honey—a combination that sounds gross but totally works for him. “Apparently, he’s quite the lady’s man. He has quote ‘Sarah Blake and Madison Vaugier on hold’.”

Dean scoffs with the shake of his head. “Son of a bitch. If he breaks Eileen’s heart, I’m gonna kill him.”

“So how much more do you need?”

“I’m still a hundred dollars short, but I’ll figure it out. Us Winchesters always do.”

“I can chip in.”

When the implication registers, Dean’s mouth drops so wide, he can fit a couple of those corndogs whose smell wafts through the bitter January air. “Ha… um, it’s okay, I’m—”

“Not into kissing guys?”

“Packing up shop, actually,” Dean corrects with a deep-fried blush.

“Ah.” Shrugging again, Cas pulls out his wallet. “That’s okay; I’ll just give you the money.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to—”

As he’s speaking, Cas hands him a… Benjamin. A crisp one too—fresh-faced and unwrinkled. Benny Boy before all the freaky sex stuff.

“Uh… I think you may’ve pulled out the wrong bill. I only charged five dollars.”

“Nope,” Cas replies with confidence, “you said you were a hundred short.”

That statement doesn’t do any favors for Dean’s slack-jaw. “I’m sorry… who _are_ you?”

“I told you, my name’s Cas.”

“No, I mean—”

“Castiel Shurley,” he clarifies, “Chuck Shurley’s son, better known as the lunatic—”

“Running for President. Surely Shurley, 2020.” Unlike his brother, Dean isn’t big into politics. But Chuck Shurley is a household name. Chuck Shurley is the guy who vows to take blue-collar criminals like his dad off the streets. Life has a sick sense of humor.

“You’re familiar,” Cas laughs humorlessly. “I figure this allowance is better put to use for working class people with good intentions than into a problematic campaign designed to benefit and funded entirely by the privileged.”

Dean accepts the cash with some leftover hesitance, like a mutt accepting table scraps for the first time—like Cas will retract the offer in a sick attempt at a joke—but his gratitude is sincere: “Thanks, man.”

“Not a problem.”

“Well hey, you may as well get your money’s worth.”

Cas shakes his head and... is _he_ blushing too? “No, I swear, it’s okay. I was just testing you about the kissing guys comment. Most guys around here pump toxic masculinity like steroids.”

“Well… what if I want to?”

This turns Cas’s smile into a full-blown grin. “Okay. But just for the record, I don’t support this form of low-grade prostitution.”

“Just kiss me,” Dean smarts, pulling Cas by the lapel of his black trench coat.

That day, Dean’s mouth got him more than a backhand or extra cash. It got him a boyfriend, too.


End file.
